


Tis in Memory Lock'd

by Mouse9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, hints of talk of incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 13:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13928364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mouse9/pseuds/Mouse9
Summary: During one of Sherlock's visits to Sherrinford, Eurus poses a question that needs an answer.





	Tis in Memory Lock'd

“Would I be your Ophelia?”

He paused in closing his violin case, not used to hearing his sister’s voice.  He glanced up, expecting her near the glass but she remained where she had stood their entire visit, in the middle of her cell, her own violin held by the neck in one hand, the bow held in the other.  Her head was tilted slightly as she watched him, almost curious.  She repeated at the question in his gaze.

“Would I be your Ophelia?”

He straightened slowly, keeping his sights on her.  As always, she confused him, caught him off guard with seemingly inane questions, that in the beginning made no sense to anyone but her.  Until their links were obviously pointed out later in the conversations.  Franticly, he cast his thoughts back to their entire fifty-minute interaction, trying to remember one speck of a glance, a look, a word, that would make her mind leap from the music they’d been playing to Shakespeare. His own head tilted slightly in a mirror of hers. 

He had to be careful, he always had to be careful, around her.

It was pointless to ask why she asked the question, try to figure out where her line of questioning had begun, where it led, she would merely repeat it until he answered. 

“You could.”  Was his careful answer.  “But I would be your Laertes.”

She frowned, confusion in her gaze.  “Why?”

The song.  The answer to her question popped into his mind. They’d been playing pieces of Tchaikovsky earlier in the visit and something in their notes must have set her off.  Carefully, he approached the glass, his hand raising to touch the glass he knew was there.  She remained where she stood watching him carefully. 

“Because,” he said.  “You are my beautiful, brilliant and mad baby sister and I love you. I have always loved you, even when I didn’t know why the sentiment wouldn’t leave the dark corners of my heart.  But the love I have for you is familial, it can only ever be familial.  But it doesn’t stand to reason that it is any less, just different.”

Her blue eyes watched him, processing his words.

“But never my Hamlet.”

His own eyes narrowed.  “Think you I have an antic disposition?”

Her lips quirked upward for the briefest of moments, but it was enough for him to know his words were reaching her. 

“Think you, I would cast you aside again?  Tell you to get to a nunnery?  Tell you that I loved you never?”

Another lip quirk.    His own lifted to match hers. 

“Besides, if I were your Laertes, whom loved his sister infinitely more, that would make Mycroft Polonius.”

That earned a soft brief snicker from her as well as the mirth he could see in her eyes.

“It does rather suit.”  He added jokingly, knowing the topic was understood and put aside.   He stepped away from the glass and turned back to his violin case, bending down to finish securing it and packing it back into the bag he brought it in on ever visit.  When he looked up she was still watching him, in the same position she’d been in since he arrived, her blue eyes studying every movement.  He knew better than to ask, accepting that she would give voice to her thoughts when she wanted and not a moment sooner. 

“Would you…stay?  An hour more?”

They were rare, the times she’d asked him to remain for longer than the allotted hour they were given a month.  He and Mycroft had argued about it, as well as the one other thing she asked even rarer.  Eventually he’d worn his brother down to agree to both, under strict stipulations.  He now glanced up at the camera in the room, knowing Mycroft was watching.  He always watched during their visits.   He looked back at his sister. 

“I can.  I would agree with more if you wish it.”

Her eyes brightened for an instant, knowing what he meant.  She turned and walked to the back of the cell, putting her violin and bow away and standing against the wall, her palms pressed to the padded surface.  He looked again to the camera, tilting his head towards the glass.

After a moment, the glass slid open wide enough for a body to slip into the cage and only long enough if there was no hesitation.  He stepped forward through the opening, his heart pounding as it always did during these very rare interactions, the memory of the first time he’d seen her in this cage, touched the glass at her insistence and felt only her hands touching his.

Even though she’d shown no violence towards him since their very first meeting, the irrational fear still lingered in the back of his mind during these encounters.   He didn’t move until he heard the locks click behind him, understanding that he was truly on his own until such time that he asked to leave.  Once inside the cell, if she decided to retaliate, there would be no rescue.  He willingly walked into the lion’s den of his own volition and he would walk out the same way.

He approached her, carefully, gently, his arms in front of him.  She watched him carefully until he was close enough to touch, his hand outstretched to her.  She lifted a hand, palm outward to press against his as was their way.    Only then did she step forward and into his arms, her head resting on his chest, her arms wrapping around his waist.

After Musgrave, he’d read up on the effect of touch starvation on humans, remembered the way she clutched to him in the burnt-out hollow of her childhood room, sobbing, her face burying against his neck, her fingers clutching the fabric of his Belstaff.  Mycroft never saw it, never understood, but then, Mycroft had been groomed to not see her as anything other than a resource.

He stroked her hair, smelling the hospital grade shampoo they used, and rested a cheek on the crown on her head. 

“My beautiful, brilliant sister.”  He whispered into her hair.

 

* * *

 

 

Hours later, Mycroft waited for him as he arrived back to Baker Street, sitting in his chair as he stepped into his flat. 

“That was unwise, brother mine.”  Was all he said.  Sherlock hung up his coat on the rack and walked past Mycroft into the kitchen. 

“So you always say, Mycroft.”  He finally answered. 

“And yet, you persist.”  There was movement in the sitting room and Mycroft appeared in the kitchen, leaning against the archway.  “Why?  Especially after your rather alarming conversation today.”

“Because she needs to understand the difference.  She’s forgotten, Mycroft, any sort of love and she needs to understand.  Just because I will never love her like that, doesn’t mean that I don’t love her.  Familial affection and romantic affection are vastly different, but they are still affection.”

The brothers stared at each other, waiting to see what would be said or done next, a silent conversation flowing between them.   Finally, Sherlock raised the kettle. 

“Tea?”

Mycroft blinked.  “Not today, thank you.  Must get back to the office.”

“Hmmm, the British Government won’t run itself.”

Mycroft smiled tightly.  “Indeed.”

“Goodbye brother mine,” Sherlock called out as Mycroft left the flat.  He’d won this bout and he would savor the win with tea and ginger snaps he knew Mrs. Hudson had in her tin.

 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock’s hands were full of bags of takeaway as he followed Molly into her flat, listening to her talk about a case that crossed her desk as she flipped though the daily mail. 

He walked past her and into the kitchen to deposit the bags and to step over Toby, who was winding himself around his legs, meowing loudly now that his two favorite people were back to pay attention to him and feed him.   He performed the task automatically now, picking up the kibble from the pantry and pouring the exact amount into the empty bowl.  Toby dived for the now full bowl, his meowing silenced for a while as he ate. 

Molly walked into the kitchen as he was replacing the kibble, a letter in her hands.  Her expression was one of confusion and nervousness, which immediately placed him on alert.

“What is it?” he asked, coming to her side.  Wordlessly, she handed him the letter, her eyes meeting his in silent questioning.  He looked down at the letter, which only bore five hand written words. 

 

**Would you be his Ophelia?**

Cold washed over him, as it always did whenever Molly was involved in something involving him.  Something he himself had not involved her in.  He looked up, expecting fear and saw only a question.

“I’m sorry.”  It was all he could say.

“Is this from Eurus?”  she asked.  He nodded. 

“She asked me a question during our last visit and I thought I had answered it to her satisfaction.  I’ll take care of this.”

She stepped forward and slipped the paper from his fingers.  “No.  I’ll answer her question.  It was addressed to me.”

“Molly, you don’t have to…”

Her touch on his arm stopped his words.  The gaze that met his wasn’t accusing or angry.  It was accepting.  Her smile was soft.    
“I’ll answer her question.  No worries.  Now, what did you pick up for dinner?”

 

* * *

 

Later, after dinner, when they were curled up together on the couch watching reruns of cooking shows, did he finally give voice to the question his sister had asked. 

“Would you be my Ophelia?” 

She tilted up her head from where is rested against his chest and gave him a smile. 

“Mmmm, I rather see myself as Beatrice to your Benedick.”

He smiled and lowered his lips to hers.  “A rather apt analogy.”  He murmured.

“I think so,” she answered as their lips met.

 

* * *

 

Those words, on cherry print paper, were what Eurus received a week later.

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when one re-watches NTL's Hamlet after seeing BBC Sherlock S4 and watches all the stuff Hamlet and Ophelia get up to during the quick set changes.


End file.
